I traced my fingers along the rows of different fabrics lining an aisle; lace, silk, or beaded pearl tickling my fingertips. It was the final fitting for one of the New Year's Eve brides, and I was along to make sure the color of ivory satin matched the vendor's tablecloths. I never missed a detail.

Standing at a counter, scrolling through messages with the vendor on my phone, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation around me. Sometimes, the bride's mother had helpful things to share, like which stock to avoid and other ethically questionable things she likely learned from her wealthy husband, and other times it was just salacious gossip I tuned out.

"Did you hear the news about the governor?" she asked her group of guests, including the bride who was silenced by her tailor.

"About his affair? I'd known that for a year. You're out of date, Louise," her friend teased, flicking open the newspaper. She gasped, grumbled, and hmphed. I was about to click send on an email to their caterer when she finally used words. "Well, I'll be. Did you see this announcement? Doctor John Powell and his wife Elizabeth Powell announce the engagement of their daughter, Roxy Powell."

"Does it say who is designing her dress?" the bride interjected, almost tumbling from her pedestal. It had to have been the Roxy. How common of a name was that? And, as I peeked up to see the gaggle of women hovering around the full-page wedding announcement, I knew it was. That was Mathilde Bennett's style. Everything had to be perfect, not a pearl misshaped or fiancée not wealthy, and it had to be publicized. Even Logan's funeral was an enormous event that became a party with an actual guest list, whereas those who really loved him as a human resided elsewhere and grieved.

She wasn't a horrible person, though. She'd been through a different world than me, and I learned from her that she preferred covering everything up with an expensive celebration as a bandage rather than admit emotion and work through it. But that wasn't Aidan. He was different, he always had been. Was that why their engagement seemed to hurt more? Because it felt so wrong?

"Who is she marrying? For a full page spread, that's going to be an expensive wedding," one of the women remarked.

"Lieutenant Commander Bennett, son of Admiral Samuel Bennett and Mathilde Bennet." She gasped, and I tried to finish my last email. Lieutenant Commander? He should've been Captain by now. I wondered for a split moment what happened to him out there, as I often did, but now I thought more about what would've prevented him from the plan they forced him to follow.

"Does this mean... Hold on." One of the women ripped the paper from the other while the bride watched them with a juxtaposition of urgency and hesitance. "It says here," she waved a finger at the newspaper, "that the entire family will be in attendance at the engagement party."

"I still want to know who is making her dress." The bride's nostrils flared as she exhaled while the tailors peeled her dress off. In just her slip, she hopped from the podium and joined the women gaping at the newspaper.

"Nobody's is better than yours, dear," her mom assured, kissing her cheek.

"Back to this," the woman holding the paper continued. "If the entire family is going to be at that party, then that means," she glanced at one of the young women in their group, "all of the Bennett sons will be there and you, my dear, will also find a way to get there."

"To do what?" the bride mocked. "You want her to walk up to one of them and ask if they'll save a dance for her? This isn't two centuries ago, Aunt Joan. Look," she crumpled the paper after pulling on her clothes, "my wedding is the one we're focusing on. Not whoever this Roxy person is, and you're definitely not considering stealing my thunder by trying to set my sister up with a Bennett."

I liked her style. Steer clear of distractions and focus on what's important. In my case, it was making this bride happy, so I finished what I needed and left the woman to bicker about whatever style of salad they wanted for lunch.

Half way to my favorite food cart for lunch, and my phone rang with my sister impatiently asking me ten things at once when I answered.

"Slow down," I ordered, waiting at the cross walk. "I can't even understand you."

"Why am I getting an invitation to an engagement party? You must've gotten an invitation, too. Right? It's not just me."

Not sure if I felt relieved to not be invited, or irritated that they'd brought my sister into this, I replied, "They're despicable."

"Using me to get to you," she agreed. "Well, at least the food will be incredible. It always was at their parties. Do you want to come with me? No. You wouldn't. Why did I ask that?"

"It's just annoying at this point." I listened to Lily agree with me, continuing to bash people from our past and spin in her drama-filled way, as I ordered a warm sandwich and carried on my way home.

Michael greeted me with a nod, opening the door with his gloved hand for me to step inside, still listening to Lily as she chewed my ear off.

"I'm looking at the invitation," she continued. "And it's on the thickest paper I've ever felt. It's like cardboard, Vi. These people spare no expense. I wonder why they didn't ask you to plan the engagement party, too. To keep things consistent. Oh, look at this."

"I can't. Thankfully." Inside, I sat at my kitchen table and let the gooey cheese on my sandwich fill my stomach with everything I needed to fix my feelings.

"How tacky is it to get married on Valentine's Day, anyway?" she scoffed. "There aren't any other weekends throughout the year? Maybe one that's less corny?"

I didn't answer. Valentine's Day weddings were one of the ways I paid my mortgage. "Many couples pick that day. It's just another reminder of how in love they are. Thank you for reminding me, though. I need to call the caterer for the wedding we have scheduled that weekend."

"You work too much."

"You party too much," I rebuked, crumpling up the wrapper from my sandwich and carrying the phone call into my living room. "If you want to come work for me, you know I always have room for you."

"Speaking of work, this invitation is for the wedding of Lieutenant Commander. Wouldn't he have a higher rank by now?"

I didn't mention how I'd wondered that earlier, but my conversation with Lily left me contemplating just how much time had passed between my past life and the current moment, when I was alone in the house I'd worked to pay for on my own. I did well for myself, and I wasn't going to let it be trampled on by Mathilde Bennet, her future daughter-in-law, or the gossipy wedding parties who fixated on full page announcements.

Before I fell asleep, I checked my calendar and handled some tasks that were on my mind. Diving in to helping others, to handling business, was how I was able to start and maintain my business. And how I could pretend I moved on. Forward, maybe. But on?

I wouldn't find my answer until two weekends later, when my sister called me in a panic from the engagement party.